What is defination(sic) of a scatologist? Hope you can help me. Thanks.

- CANYUFEELIT2

Dear CANYUFEELIT2,
  A scatologist is a person who has an unhealthy fascination with human waste, such as feces, urine, and Christina Aguilera videos.

Dear Little Bald Bastard,
Why does the sun shine?

Sincerely,

- Jon

Endicott, NY
Dear Jon,
  As They Might Be Giants once said, the sun is a mass of incandescent gas, a gigantic nuclear furnace. While this is technically correct, it’s also far from the complete story. The sun is also the largest local gravitational force. It’s busily pulling on everything around it, trying like hell to drag a large enough object into our orbit that a collision with the Earth will wipe out the human race, allowing us to eventually be replaced by something that’s not only intelligent, but nice. The shining is only a side effect.

  Why does a bluegrass cover of Gin and Juice make me so happy?

  Ever since I managed to wash my iPod in the pocket of my jacket, the soundtrack of my commute has been a collection of overheard conversation, transit engine noise, and the tinny buzz of music from out of the headphones of the future deaf community. On days when I forget to bring something to read, my brain often fills the background noise with snatches of poorly remembered songs. I can usually only recall a few bars or so, and that short bit invariably lodges in my brain like a tumor with ninja training, repeating on an endless, maddening loop until I get involved in some task or other.

  This morning, for some unfathomable reason, I got brain-smacked by the opening verse of the showtune Big Spender. I haven’t heard it in years, but that’s de rigueur for these random songbombs. What made it notable was that my stunted, malformed psyche managed to conjure up a version I’ve never heard before. I was hearing it sung by bathhouse-era Bette Midler. Loud, brassy, lungs that could power a small wind farm. I didn’t even know that she’d recorded the song; thirty seconds on Google revealed 2005’s Sings the Peggy Lee Songbook, containing Midler’s recording of the song, a version arranged by her old bathhouse piano player, Barry Manilow.

  I haven’t ever heard this version of the song, nor do I plan to, so I guess I’ll never know how similar it is to the one my brain vomited up. I just found the whole episode mildly disconcerting, and I thought I’d share my disquiet with the Internet. Isn’t this the kind of thing that convinces the credulous that they’re psychic?

I went to the Popped! Festival Saturday lineup at Drexel University. Thanks are due to Y-Rock On XPN, and the woman who emailed their contest before me, and then couldn’t attend.

I give the performers a score of 64 out of 73. Crystal Castles wasn’t my cup of tea, but the acts were uniformly energetic and engaged with the crowd. They were mostly well-mixed too, with a minimum of vocals drowned out by instruments.

I have to give the festival itself a less-impressive 18 out of 25. Although the stage set-up (taking over 33rd Street north of Market) was interesting and well thought-out, there were other details that were wanting.

My biggest complaint was the policy barring re-entry. I understand that concession sales are necessary, but forcing us to stay in a two-square block radius for the planned eight-hour show, with three dollar water and eight dollar wraps as sustenance, was a tad frustrating. It was compounded by the fact that there was no notice of the policy. I didn’t find out until after I’d gone in, and I was a little cheesed. After a few other people were similarly caught, they finally broke out the markers and scrap paper to make some handwritten signs, which would have been handier if they’d not been put up two hours after the gates opened.

There also seemed to be some disconnect between the yellow-shirted event staff and the grey-clad volunteers. Questions asked sometimes got different answers depending on the color of shirt worn by the answer-giver. That kind of lack of uniformity always grates on me.

Since I was there for free, I maintained a civil tongue. Through some clever wrangling, I managed to stay in the shade all day, whilst still being able to see the stage. All in all, it was a pretty good day, and I learned something valuable about myself.

I should never go to concerts.

I’m too self-conscious to dance, too spindly to mosh, and too concerned about hearing loss to get close enough to the stage to really connect with the performers. I wind up isolated in a crowd of people, feeling like I’m wearing the world’s biggest pair of headphones. Instead of getting engaged by the music, I become hyper-aware of bumping into people, or sweating too much, or unexpectedly running into someone I know, and having to exchange awkward greetings over the din.

So the takeaway message is this. The Popped! Festival was fun. I am not so fun. From now on, I think I’ll stick to my public radio podcasts. Somehow, I doubt the scene kids will notice I’m gone.